Saturday, November 8, 2014

There is a Man sitting on a bench
He doesn't move, just keeps quiet
Very very still, as if he is not there at all
Could he be staring at the horizon
(Horizon is staring at his unseen face)
Is he Waiting for someone
Or something
Maybe he Waits for time to pass
Could time be arriving in any hour
Or is it leaving by the second
When is it time

Could he store it in a capsule

Or is he the one trapped inside
Oroboro devours himself

No Man can die
Until he is found by what is sought to be found
What is not yet found is surely Lost
Desert of Reality was so vast
That Lost walked purposelessly
Unaware of the Man Who Waits
So aimless were his steps
That infinitude became his Path
So Lost could never be found

The Man Who Waits
He waited a little longer
Not just a little, he waited as long
As the extent of that Lost Path
That could never be found
So he did not die

Day was not as patient
As The Man Who Waits
For carrying the Old Sun
It bowed down
Right in front of the Man
The Man Who Waits
Because it was in the horizon

Under his persistent gaze
And oh, how much tiring it was
Endless eyes, sharp and vigilant

Ceaselessly shining for millions of years (and it wouldn't be enough!)
Old Sun was heavy with envy and Day was worn-out
Day was on it's knees, facing the obscurity of the Universe
And once, the obscurity had enveloped the earth
Light would meet it's extinction
And there would be no Light to observe
So would The Man Who Waits, still be there
Or would he disappear and have never existed

Could I forgotten that I imagined that I dreamt about existence
If I forgot it all, will it be gone too as well?
Would what have ever been, really have been?